The Wish List of Albie Young (ARC)

by Ruby Hummingbird

  Keith was quiet too, staring at his empty bowl as if it contained the answer to some complicated question.

  Maria frowned, not wanting to probe too much in front of Cathie.

  Cathie took a breath, surreptitiously wiping at her eyes. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said quickly, her chair scraping as she got up, headed to the bathroom in the corner.

  Maria watched her go and then turned back to face Keith.

  He remained still, lost somewhere else as Maria gave him a small smile. ‘You alright, Keith? You seem very quiet.’

  He looked up, pain etching his eyes. ‘It’s just brought it home, seeing her.’ He tipped his head towards the bathroom, his voice soft. ‘I don’t want to be like that with my boy. I don’t want to not know him, not hear from him.’

  Maria’s heart ached at the words, his loss clear. She couldn’t imagine anyone being cross with Keith, not wanting to hear from him. To her, he was a warm, generous soul, but she knew he hadn’t always been like that, and he was the first to beat himself up over his past.

  He squared his shoulders, looking up at her. ‘I’m going to get back in touch, I’m not going to take no for an answer. I have to tell him that I love him. In our last row I said such stupid, hateful things and I don’t want to be filled with this regret. It ruins people.’

  Maria was moved by Keith’s serious expression, the worry in his eyes. ‘I’m sure he’ll want to hear from you,’ she said, placing a hand on his arm. ‘And if you get in touch and it doesn’t, well, if you need company, or someone to talk to… I know only too well what it is to live with regrets.’

  Keith’s eyebrows lifted at the admission, Maria hastily looking away. She had never shared her own sorry story, this was the closest she had come to letting it slip.

  Keith’s mouth opened and Maria felt the room stop, the sounds fade away as she waited for his questions. Was a small part of her relieved that she might finally try talking about it?

  ‘Well,’ Cathie said from behind her, making Maria jump.

  Keith’s mouth snapped closed.

  Maria felt a mixture of feelings at the interruption. She breathed in deeply, slowly, trying to ignore her pounding heart. She wouldn’t have to share it with him today, but something told her from his watchful look that this wouldn’t be the last of it.

  I stopped seeing friends, I pushed people away. It didn’t take much. No returning calls, a few angry words in passing, a refusal to leave the house, constant excuses and gradually they ebb away.

  I became the talk of our street, our house of flats: pitying glances, tipped heads, whispers behind hands. God, I hated them all with their normal lives: the rows with their children, their partners’ foot rubs, their holidays.

  Sarah, my friend and neighbour who had spent countless hours gossiping with me, meeting me every week to watch the latest episode of The Two Ronnies on our rubbish television – the only good thing on any of the three channels she’d said. She had set me up on dates, delighted when Darren had lasted a couple of years before he’d left me for Australia, and had brought a Viennetta and pretended to be horrified when we finished the whole thing. She was the last friend to go; she clung on for a while. It took a lot to tell her to leave and I moved out of our building to make sure of it.

  It is surprisingly easy to shed the people in your life when you are determined to do so, and I was.

  Thirty-Two

  It was lovely to have made her peace with Cathie and Maria was gratified to receive a text message almost immediately:

  Lovely to see all the places that meant a lot to Albie.

  She’d promised to return again soon, invited Maria to her house in Margate too. She had photographs from their childhood – she was going to scan some and send them. A tiny Albie, Maria thought with a small smile. She imagined a cheeky boy roaming the fields of the West Country, pudgy legs, a wide grin.

  Beneath her apartment she could make out some distant crying and found herself dressing quickly, moving into her kitchen and collecting up various supplies. She removed the wish list from its new home in the top drawer of her bedside table and started writing on it. This was something that would make a difference, she was sure.

  She appeared at the doorway downstairs, holding a mop and bucket filled with various cloths. ‘Right, you are absolutely not to argue with me but I want you to sit down on your sofa while I take care of things for you,’ she said, feeling authoritative.

  Cara’s mouth was half-open, Owen clinging to one leg, a muslin over her shoulder, a baby in her arm tugging on the bottom of her rather lank hair.

  ‘Oh… I…’

  Maria put up a hand. ‘In return, I’ll have a cup of tea and maybe a biscuit.’

  Cara looked worried, raking at her hair. ‘Oh, I don’t think I have biscuits.’

  ‘Biscuit,’ said Owen brightly, and suddenly ran away.

  ‘That absolutely won’t be a deal-breaker,’ Maria assured her.

  ‘I think I have a Snickers bar somewhere though,’ Cara said.

  Maria laughed. ‘You’re more in need,’ she said, eyeing up Owen, who had reappeared covered in flour.

  ‘Mummy, I made a snowman.’

  ‘Oh god,’ Cara said, racing to the kitchen. Maria followed, trying to hide her laughter as Owen presented them with his snowman, which seemed to consist of a large pile of plain flour and a carrot on the floor.

  ‘He melted.’

  Cara’s mouth twitched and Maria bustled inside. ‘Well, if I start in here, then I’d love to play with the little man,’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘No, honestly, I couldn’t…’

  Maria placed a hand on Cara’s upper arm. ‘I really do want to, please let me.’

  Cara seemed to weigh things up, the baby now crying in her ear, Owen running down the corridor, announcing that he had a ‘lovely surprise’ for her.

  Maria gently shoved her out and, after a moment’s fretting in the corridor, Cara moved through to the living room, where Owen was bouncing on the sofa playing ‘trampoline’.

  ‘Mummy, I flying.’

  Maria ran the taps, snapped on her Marigolds and set to work. Cara had turned on some music next door and she found herself humming along as she swept and scrubbed and mopped. Her back ached, but she enjoyed transforming the place, gratified to peek through the door to see Cara laughing as she sat on the carpet next to Owen and about ten thousand small cars, the baby dozing in a rocker nearby.

  She joined them once she’d finished, bringing two coffees through on a tray.

  ‘Biscuit,’ Owen asked hopefully and Cara rolled her eyes and got up to go to the kitchen.

  She returned holding a plate with three Hobnobs in the centre. ‘I ration them,’ she explained as Owen picked up two. ‘Just one!’ And when his lip wobbled, she said, ‘You get nothing if you take two.’ He returned the second to the plate quickly.

  Owen had finished his biscuit and clambered into Cara’s lap. Placing both hands on either side of his mother’s cheeks, he looked at her: ‘I share yours.’

  ‘I know what that’s code for.’ Cara laughed, breaking off the tiniest piece of her biscuit, which Owen immediately demolished.

  Maria nibbled on hers, enjoying being around a little one and all the energy a child his age brought, enjoying his wonder over the small things, his solemn introduction to his row of cars, and finally, the small hand in Maria’s as she got up to leave.

  ‘Let’s make a traffic jam.’

  So, she stayed a while longer, ushering Cara off to take a shower while she watched the children.

  Cara was quick, returning in tracksuit bottoms, her hair wrapped in a towel, but her cheeks were flushed pink and she seemed to have more energy, less tension. Maria wished Cara had more help – it was lonely and hard, this stage of motherhood. She thought back on her own experience, not used to staying with the thoughts but this time forcing herself to remember: the showers with the door open so she could check on her daughter enclosed in a play pen; the a
nxiety of the early months, bent over her cot as she slept, needing to hear the breaths, see her chest moving; the worry when she got ill, or cried out. The amount of stuff required to just leave the house, the roll of a stranger’s eyes if her daughter cried in a public place.

  She finally got up to leave after Cara finished feeding the baby and was putting down Owen for a brief nap. He had given a sleepy ‘Bye, bye’ and a wave as he was carried through, his tiny head resting on Cara’s shoulder, to his room.

  Cara returned as Maria was packing her things away in the kitchen. ‘Thank you so much, the place looks amazing. I can’t believe you did that for me,’ she said in a low voice, careful not to rouse Owen.

  Maria felt herself grow hot, feeling that she was getting far too much credit for a couple of hours out of her day. ‘It’s wonderful to do something small that makes a difference to someone else.’ She wrung out one of the cloths and threw it in the empty bucket. ‘A friend taught me that,’ she added quietly.

  ‘Well, thank you. I won’t let you clean for me again but it has made a huge difference.’

  Maria propped up the mop in the bucket, ready to make her excuses and leave Cara in her one moment of quiet, before Owen woke, before the baby demanded something else. ‘I won’t clean for you every week, but…’ Maria took a breath, knowing the next sentence would cause a reaction. ‘I want to hire someone who will.’

  Predictably, Cara started to protest, her face a horrified gape. Maria raised a hand to hush her. ‘Before you say no’ – Cara fell silent, still staring at her as Maria continued – ‘let me tell you about the lovely man who will be footing the bill…’

  The job I so loved became exhausting: all the people to speak to, to manage. I lost the energy and what was the point of the work? I couldn’t remember.

  I started missing the networking events, became sloppy with the projects I handed in, forgot to fax people information on time, was short with the boss. It came as no surprise, after months limping along, to be let go. The old promises of promotion long gone, this woman wouldn’t be promoted, this woman didn’t even belong in this company. There wasn’t a leaving do. If there was, I wouldn’t have gone anyway. All those years, gone in a blink, and when I left, carrying only my handbag, I didn’t even care.

  Thirty-Three

  They were heading up on the train. Maria met him outside the station dressed all in black, a T-shirt with a small red logo on the chest, baggy trousers, scuffed trainers. The most unlikely couple, she thought, as she smoothed at her pale pink skirt, her cream jacket, feeling somewhat overdressed.

  Troy looked her up and down. ‘These were the only things I’ve got,’ he said, a hand rubbing at his chin, clearly panicking as he saw her smart clothes and freshly washed and dried hair – Mandy’s best work.

  ‘We’ll sort you something,’ Maria said, tucking his arm into hers and moving into the station. ‘Let’s just get up there.’

  She hadn’t thought about his clothes, she realised as she collected their tickets from the booth, how thoughtless of her. He should feel comfortable but then they were headed to The Ritz, so she didn’t want him to stick out and be made to feel awkward. Would he even be able to get in with trainers on? She didn’t want that to ruin their day.

  ‘I’ve never been to London,’ Troy admitted, settling himself in his seat, bouncing once, twice with nervous energy.

  ‘It’s been almost forty years for me so that’s almost the same.’ Maria gave him a small smile, trying to make him feel more comfortable. ‘I’m glad you’re coming, I’m frankly terrified and I need the company. Albie and his grand plans, eh? He’s laughing somewhere.’

  That seemed to relax him a little and he sat back, head resting on the seat.

  She had brought her book but didn’t remove it from her bag, just watched as they left Brighton, the landscape changing as they coursed through the countryside, greens and yellows flashing past. She bought them drinks from the catering cart, her tea slopping as she stirred it with a plastic spoon, Troy taking small sips of his can of Coke, jiggling his leg up and down in the aisle. Slowing near the capital, the carriages flashed light to dark as they passed tunnels, bridges, large concrete buildings.

  Troy was leaning forward, arms resting on the table in front of him. His mouth opened as they passed through a tunnel lined with vivid images, graffiti that she wouldn’t even have noticed. ‘Sick,’ he said under his breath, which she knew now meant he was impressed. He had brought along his sketchpad and had opened it then to jot something down. He was always thinking, she realised, always creating. She couldn’t wait to share her surprise with him later.

  They had time before their booking at The Ritz. Staring at the complicated lines on the Underground map, they both looked at each other before Maria made the decision. ‘We’ll splurge on a taxi,’ she said firmly, turning towards the exit for the taxi rank. ‘Albie wouldn’t want us to slum it, not today.’ She knew with absolute certainty that he would have wanted to spoil them.

  Troy looked visibly relieved. She hadn’t seen him in this setting before, staying close to her side, one hand steering her by the elbow, pretending perhaps to be caring for her, while the frightened expression on his face reminded her that he was young and out of place. She felt fiercely protective of him, glaring as a man nearby shoulder-barged him when jabbing at his mobile.

  The taxi dropped them near Green Park station and they stepped out onto the street, pausing for a moment at the sheer number of people and cars, buses and taxis whizzing past.

  ‘Right, let’s get you something a little smarter, shall we? And I could do with something too, need to make Albie proud.’

  Troy simply nodded, allowing Maria to usher him into a nearby clothes shop, watching him run a hand along a row of shirts, biting his lip as a young guy approached.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’

  Troy shook his head quickly, almost scuttling back to Maria’s side.

  Laughing, she moved down the aisle, pulling out a simple black V-neck jumper, the fabric impossibly soft. ‘How about this?’ she asked, holding it up to her body.

  ‘Your top is nice,’ Troy said, mumbling at his feet.

  ‘Not for me, you idiot, for you.’ Maria laughed out loud and the shop assistant looked up. Maria had never called anyone an idiot, and she was gratified to hear Troy laughing in response.

  ‘S’OK,’ he said, letting her hand it to him.

  ‘Don’t be too effusive,’ she sighed, moving along and pulling out a shirt, T-shirt, trousers.

  ‘Woah, hold on!’ Troy said, turning over the price tag.

  ‘Come on, Troy, Albie would want us to dress up for the occasion.’

  Troy’s mouth twitched, his eyebrows pulled together before he apparently made up his mind. ‘Alright. Is there a changing room, mate?’ he asked the assistant, who pointed him to the back of the shop and a row of three curtained cubicles. ‘I’m not doing a fashion parade for you though,’ he added, taking the hangers from her and heading towards the back.

  Troy tried everything on, peeking out from behind the curtain, pretending to be checking on her.

  ‘Do you want me to take a look?’ Maria asked and he nodded once, holding back the curtain.

  He was wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, a pale blue shirt and the black V-neck jumper – he looked impossibly good-looking.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  Maria looked him up and down: ‘I think we’re going to need new shoes.’

  It was a different person who stepped into The Ritz with her a couple of hours later, Troy walking taller as he accompanied her across the polished, bright foyer, his new shoes tapping on the marble, an enormous chandelier overhead, a grand staircase sweeping away to their right.

  ‘We have a reservation,’ Maria said in an exaggerated whisper at the double doors to the restaurant.

  Troy tugged on his collar, clearly unused to the new clothes.

  ‘You look perfect,’ Maria said as they waited, ad
miring the shine of his new black leather shoes, his old clothes and trainers stored in a large carrier bag in his hand. He stopped fidgeting and gave her a wide smile.

  ‘Do follow me please,’ the discreet voice of the maître d’.

  Troy waggled both eyebrows as they followed the man, who didn’t have a single hair out of place and was holding a starched white cloth over one arm. Maria felt the stirrings of a laugh inside her. Albie Young, what were you thinking? She thought fondly of the café back in Brighton with its old gingham tablecloths, the table – always scattered with salt grains – wobbling unless you folded up a napkin for underneath its leg, the paintings on the walls with stickers announcing their price. Here were landscapes in gilded frames, enormous layered chandeliers – light gleaming from every perfectly cut-glass teardrop – crisp white tablecloths, polished oak surfaces, people in expensive suits, beautifully cut clothes. Maria felt relieved that they had gone shopping, her own new silk neckerchief perfect for the occasion.

  They ordered the champagne afternoon tea and sat in a sort of scared silence as they soaked in the room.

  ‘This is mental,’ Troy whispered, leaning in towards her.

  She bit her lip: ‘It is a bit.’

  Too frightened to raise their voices, they exchanged various looks as people moved past, chattered at tables. The waiter approached, practically hidden behind the most enormous tiered cake stand. He set it down in the centre of the table and departed.

  Maria stared at the stand in front of them. Tiny sandwiches – cucumber and cream cheese, salmon, and egg and cress – cut in perfect triangles lined up along the bottom, enormous fluffy scones next to pots of thick clotted cream and the most delicious-looking strawberry jam, then miniature cakes of every variety – layers of delicate sponge, fillings in pastel shades, even a small, perfectly round marble cake. Maria couldn’t look away. It was as if Albie had planned it. A beautiful patterned teapot with bone china tea cups was presented on a tray, a feast for the eyes.